


detail of the fire

by Jagged



Category: Battleborn (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, atrociously bad flirting, im sorry, they don't even kiss or hold hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/pseuds/Jagged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rath worries and pines, not necessarily in that order. Caldarius may or may not be enjoying watching him suffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	detail of the fire

_The songbird that escapes_  
_from a burning house_  
_will build its nest_  
_in the shape of a cage._

[[x]](http://thediagram.com/9_5/teitman.html)

 

 _Let me see_ , Rath says, and the wingblades on the armor shudder as though preparing for flight. Heat blurs their shape for a second as Caldarius half-turns from the windows to look at him, red lines muted under the white lights; then the moment folds unto itself, the thrusters hum back into silence. The safety clicks on.   
  
Light catches on the cracks in the armor. Caldarius says _I'm fine_ and turns away again, and were he less concerned Rath would be — pleased, perhaps, at the trust in the gesture.   
  
But he is, concerned and fretful, and so rather than let himself linger in the doorway, rather than accept the rebuttal and content himself with this, all this — Caldarius' presence here, the impossibility of him alive in spite of everything, again and again, the fragile quiet of the moment — Rath moves across the room, lets his steps resonate and his hand hover long enough at Caldarius' shoulder that he could move away before it reached him, tries not to look too eager or make a bumbling fool of himself.  
  
The air shimmers. Caldarius stays still.  
  
Rath lays his hand on cool metal and feels the spiderweb of surface damage under his palm; thinks, fleetingly, about flight distances.

 

 

Some things they don't think to warn you about, with Sustainment. The way times stretches; how memories blur like stars as the centuries drift by, very very far away. And how some shine and flare nova-bright and blinding — battles and victories and Rendain's hand heavy and warm at his back and that day looking down in the Pits, the Kemessian's meteoric rise, the fighting: how nothing seemed able to touch him, how beautiful it was, how surely half the empire fell in love with him and nobody could have found fault in it, no one —

 

 

 _Verod_ , Caldarius sighs, the sound and the name made larger by the suit. Rath pulls himself from metaphors and considers this as he nudges him into shifting so he can better assess the damage, snorts at the dry reminder Caldarius gives him that he's got self-repair protocols running, _right now, as we speak, nothing I can't handle._

  
_There is one metallurgist here_ , Rath tuts, _and it isn't you. Now, do you want to tell me a hundred days on the run and all of Penarch didn't do anything permanent at all? Please, Caldarius, we both know better._  
  
Caldarius crosses his arms, and it's easy to imagine the glare somewhere under all that armor. The gesture is oddly charming, but maybe that's just Rath, who's so recently rediscovered a fondness for confrontations; Rath mirrors the movement and stares back, waiting. It's a gamble, if he's being honest: there are others here who could help with the damage were Caldarius to ask for it, who know wires and machines better than Rath. But none know Jennerit metal near as well, or, more importantly, are known values. Trust is a beast he's struggled with, in the last three years; Rath thinks, hopes? perhaps this may be true of Caldarius too.  
  
Belatedly he thinks to add, _You can stay in the suit while I work._  
  
The silence stretches. He wonders if he's made Caldarius uncomfortable, or angry, like he's doubting his competence, as that would be. Unfortunate. Seconds tick on. Rath considers excusing himself, locating Phoebe and with her help create a time machine that would, firstly, let him go back and prevent this conversation from ever having happened, and secondly, allow him to assassinate Rendain. In that order.  
  
A noise suspiciously like muffled laughter filters through the speakers. _Just fucking with you, Verod._ The suit unfolds, wings fanning, and Caldarius brushes almost close enough to touch as he zooms past him to lean against the door. _Lead the way._ There's amusement written all over his posture and voice, and Rath has to cover his face with his hand to regain his composure and not stare.  
  
_See if I do anything nice for you now_ , he grumbles even as he moves to catch up, and Caldarius laughs again, laced with jumping static, sounds confident and sure when he shoots back _You will_ , which, well. He's right.

 

 

Of course Rath starts with the sword. Not his usual work, the metal not meant for it — though it had, in the end, folded to his purpose — but it neatly slices through skin when he tests its edge with his thumb. He hums in approval as he licks the blood from his finger, then taps at the sheath. Caldarius obligingly retracts the blade, taps military marches against the workbench as Rath makes his way from there, recites the armor's specs as needed, offers the how and when of each visible dent and crack with almost worrying facility.  
  
Most of them are from Bliss, because of course. Mobility's not much help when grounded. It takes a certain effort for Rath to not suggest adding more swords; instead he says _We should spar_ and Caldarius hums, _You would lose_. That's not the point, he wants to say, only for Caldarius the slave, Caldarius the pit fighter, Caldarius the soldier it must be. Rath traces the small shape of his signature over the blade on Caldarius' arm, says _Best out of three, winner gets first hit on Rendain_.   
  
_I will... think about it_ , Caldarius says, but the slight tilt of his head says yes and Rath smiles, gets his tools and gets to work.  
   
It's not the forge he's spent eons working in, but then it's not like he's making something out of nothing, only smoothing over fault lines and welding over scars and scorch marks and cajoling metal into shape. Not quite familiar but still calming, the song of hammer on metal and crackling heat, and if there's more to it than the usual — one learns to adapt. Things change. Some fall apart. Others slot into pieces. Rath thinks of running, and this is easy. Then he thinks of stopping, of being still, and finds he can't. Even now as he sits in this workshop he is — moving back along history, erasing the traces of what meant to kill Caldarius, so there is nothing to stumble over later.  
  
And yet Caldarius is: still, a muted hum of machinery and heat waiting under Rath's care; still, watching. Still, alive and angry and precise in his purpose, and Rath thinks of slowly taking apart the armor, intricate and careful work like he's not had the chance nor the desire to do since leaving Tempest. First the wings, blade after blade dropping like shell casings — and then the arms shedding their guns, the chest unfolding like a warp anchor, the legs wobbling to the last — and at the center of it Caldarius, looking as he did back in the arena, fangs bared and proud, untouched, unharmed, lunging at him.   
  
Strange, how things converge: he thinks about taking Rendain apart a lot, too.   
  
Rath stands and moves to Caldarius' back, tracing the edges of the wings then to the center of the suit, traces the lights and raised lines he knows hide the catches to the cockpit. There is no damage here, only — the potential for it, an opening. Caldarius' fingers have stilled on the bench but he is silent, waiting, almost daring Rath to do something and Rath thinks of how close Caldarius is, Rath _wants_ —  
  
_Will I have to track you down next time_ , Rath asks, and Caldarius says _I won't let anyone get that close again_ , which — he rises to his feet and Rath lets his hand fall back to his side, wincing to himself, pretends to tidy the bench and listens to Caldarius leaving until he's not, a rumble of thrusters that cannot be anything but purposeful and forces him to look back even though he's trying and —  
  
Caldarius says, _Best out of three, tomorrow. You're on._

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to gearbox for making rath incredibly gay & my pals @ battlebarn on tumblr for making the lore available and thus letting me obsess about the timeline of caldarius' escape & rescue


End file.
